Sticks and Stones
by CarolynneRuth
Summary: Ponyboy's reflections and experiences on his first day back at school after Johnny's death and the court trial.


**A/N: This is just a little one shot. I've had the idea for a long time, and I needed to write something to get me back in the writing mood.**

 **Ponyboy mentions how tough it was going back to school after Johnny's death in the novel. I thought I would write about his very first day.**

 **Enjoy!**

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 _I wish I could say everything went back to normal, but it didn't. Especially me …_

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It's just memories. Moments in time. They are filled with visual imagery, the colors so vibrant. It's the colors that always stick in my mind the most. Words I can never recall, because they are just words, but the colors … I never forget them. Just like facial expressions, I don't ever forget them either. They always stay with me. And the eyes. The eyes speak far more than words ever will do. The haunted pained look in Johnny's eyes still stays with me, and I think it always will. The eyes reveal too much. And when you look too deeply into them, you get stuck there. You feel everything. I have to look away before my heart is ripped into shreds. Before it's ripped into so many tiny fragments that I'll have no hope in ever putting them back together.

That's how it is after Johnny died. And nothing will ever be the same again.

Every corner I turn, I still see him there. Lurking in the shadows. Watching me. Waiting for me. Always the fear of some cruel remark. Too much apprehension. Too much flinching. Pulling his collar up as he walks, as if that will somehow protect him from the worst of what this world will fling his way. But it won't. Nothing will, or could ever protect Johnny in this life. Or others like him, or maybe even me. The knowledge of this is too much. The colours are too muted, filled with dark shades of grey, hues of misty blue and black. I hate the darkness. I long for colour. Like the sunset, filled with misty pink, brilliant oranges that streak across the sky, offering hope and light. It's only then that I feel alive. That, maybe there is something more out there. Maybe a place of great beauty that I might find one day. It's where I want to be. I think Johnny is there now. Lucky him.

But it ain't my reality. My world is filled with darkness. I don't know who I am. I don't know where I'm going. My feet move, one after the other, in a rhythmic monotone fashion. I shuffle, out of the way of other kids who have no mind on where they tread, no thought in whose personal space they encroach. They don't see. They don't see anything. They are only caught up in a moment, a fleeting feeling that'll never last. Mindless and always moving headlong to the next adventure, whatever that'll be, wanting to feel part of something.

I don't feel part of anything. My mind is numb now. I exist in a fog. It's filled with a haziness that I can't escape.

I'm merely sleeping. It's even darker there. Sometimes it scares me.

I can't wake up.

I can't face what I must. Everyone keeps telling me that I'm fine, that I'll be okay. But I don't believe them. Maybe if Darry glares hard enough, and not just a glare of hate, but a glare filled with fierce longing, a longing for me to snap out of it and start living again. I guess it's a glare of two kinds. _'Try harder Ponyboy'_ and _'start living again'_. Because I think he needs me too, he needs that validation that everything will be okay. Call it peace of mind, call it making amends for losses that he could never help. The loss is there all the same. Don't matter how much he tries to pretend it's not there, it is … it's always gonna be.

We make the most of a bad situation, filled with grief.

I'm trying to pretend.

Because that's what I do. Pretend. Keep functioning. Keep feet moving, one after the other. I can do it.

I open my locker, get my books out and ignore the fact that Johnny's locker is next to mine. I swear I catch a waft of the grease in his hair. It's comforting. Old times. Times I wish I could hold onto.

My eyes rest on his battered locker. I can just make out the scratch makes - _murderer_ \- despite the cleaner's attempt to eradicate it.

It's gonna be etched their forever.

But Johnny ain't a murderer.

He's a hero.

Too good for this world. Too good for anyone of us.

Now he's gone.

I can't accept it….

I look up. I wish I didn't. Everyone is staring at me. Eyes questioning … accusing.

I think I might throw up. Maybe I'll hole up in the toilet for the whole day.

Don't have to face anything there.

I can pretend then … pretend everything is just fine … but I'm lying again. As I do. Always lying to myself.

But it's okay, because only I know, just how much I lie to myself.

It's grey there. Always grey. I think that's all I know.

And I don't like it.

Colors ... where did they go?

I want them back. I need them.

Some days, I feel so alone.

If I could just see the orange hue in the sky. Then I might be okay.

I swallow the lump in my throat. Staring at the graffiti on the back of the toilet door. Bright red scrawling's and lots of angry words.

My hands are numb from the coldness that seeps through the cement floor.

The door squeaks as guys come and go. And words. Laughter. Crude jokes. The words go in one ear and out the other.

Some stick though.

" _Did you see him?"_

" _The greaser kid."_

" _Reckon he has some nerve."_

" _Wouldn't want to be in his shoes."_

No, no he wouldn't.

" _See his hair …"_

Laughter.

Something inside of me cringes.

" _Ain't so tough now."_

" _He never was."_

More laughter.

" _Who the hell names their kid Ponyboy?"_

" _Some dipshit for a father."_

The laughter echoes around the room. It bounces off the walls.

My insides freeze up, colder than my hands.

I try to remember. My father's face, but it's all blurred. Then I'm hit with a fierce longing. To see my father's face again, just one more time.

To hear him laugh. To see the way the corners of his eyes would crinkle when he did. His laughter was full of warmth, like rays of yellow sunlight. Everything was lighter then, bathed in golden hues of color.

My throat aches.

My eyes burn.

The shrill of the school bell startles me. I pull myself up. Gotta move. Gotta keep functioning.

The toilets are empty now. I run my hands under the freezing water at the hand basin, catching a glimpse of my pale reflection in the mirror.

It ain't me.

A bitter harsh laugh that nearly ends in a sob escapes my throat.

I shuffle out of the toilets and down the hall towards my English class.

Kids part on either side of me, like I'm some sort of contagious disease. Then I see her. For a moment our eyes lock and hold. I freeze on the spot. There is a question in her gaze and pity too.

I think she wants to talk. But it's only an illusion. She hurriedly looks away as if she never even saw me. I watch her leave, catching a glimpse of her red hair as it brushes against her shoulders.

Something inside of me shrivels up.

 _Greaser. Greaser. Dirty, filthy greaser._ Just empty words I tell myself.

I make my feet move as the fog circles around me. Eyes probing, taunting and leering. Vultures ready to devour what's left of me.

I build a brick wall around myself, where the eyes can't penetrate and the words … can't get through.

I can do this. I have to. Just push the door open. Just step into the classroom. Just pretend everything is fine.

My eyes rest on Johnny's empty chair before glancing around the room.

A dozen eyes stare at me. Someone giggles in the back row. _'Look at his hair.'_

Two girls, whose names I don't remember, whispering, staring and sneering.

The teacher turns around.

Now there is silence. I find that worse. The silence.

He clears his throat. I don't let my eyes meet his. I can't. Too afraid of what I might see; recrimination.

"Ponyboy," he speaks. "Good to see you back, son. Take a seat."

Next to Johnny's empty chair? I can almost see him there. A look of relief on his face as he sees me. ' _Ponyboy, you're here. I'm not alone anymore.' I see the concern in his dark brown eyes. 'Hey man. You okay? You look sick.'_

' _Nah, Johnny. I ain't okay. I ain't ever gonna be okay again.'_

A lump forms in my throat. It's raw and it hurts. Johnny's image fades before my eyes, much like my parents. They take the warmth, and they take all the color too.

All that's left is grey.

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Thanks for reading! Hope it wasn't too grim. Just me trying to get in Pony's head, and trying to write his thoughts with as much visual imagery as I can.

On a side note, to all of my loyal readers of my other story. I'm sorry it's been so long since I've updated it. I haven't abandoned it. I've just had a lot of stuff going on in my life these last couple of months. One thing I am happy to say is that I think my writing muse has finally found me again.

Cheers!


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